


All That Might Be (Endless Possibilities)

by TrulyCertain



Series: An Unquenchable Flame [3]
Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-05
Updated: 2017-09-27
Packaged: 2018-03-29 04:44:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 17,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3882775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrulyCertain/pseuds/TrulyCertain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yvaine Trevelyan: good mage, awful comedian, quite possibly the bane of Cullen Rutherford's life. Drabbles and miscellany to accompany An Unquenchable Flame.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Notes on "the Herald"

_Property of C. Rutherford. To be delivered to Sister Leliana upon her request._

  * Ill? Side-effect of the Rift? Pale, shaking.
  * Nervous. Fidgets, seems reluctant to make eye contact. All in all, does not point towards her innocence.
  * Seems preoccupied with knowing whether she is still a suspect and what will happen to her. Understandable, in the circumstances.
  * However, keen on helping the Inquisition. Positive.
  * Leliana calls her “easily distracted”. I think that perhaps “kind” would do just as well. Has spent time with refugees in the Hinterlands. Rumours say that several now have more blankets and food supplies. Doesn’t seem to be doing it to garner favour.
  * Some colour returning. Seems healthier.
  * Seems curious about various members of the Inquisition. ~~Including me. Frankly quite disconcerting.~~
  * Still refuses to answer to Herald. Seems disapproving of the propagation of that legend.
  * Willing to be cooperative. Appears friendly ~~and actually quite funny, on occasion.~~



_Scribbled underneath the list, in a neat but hasty hand:_ Is this really necessary? I feel we’ve ascertained her loyalty. We’ve seen enough evidence of good intentions that I doubt she’s about to slit our throats while we’re sleeping. These observations feel intrusive, and spying is your area of expertise, not mine.


	2. Light

She’s so cold. In fact, Yvaine wonders whether she’ll ever be warm again.  She shivers, tries in vain to pull her scarf closer to her skin - Inquisition red, just like the rest of her. She’s bleeding and scraped, red where she isn’t green. Wonderful, she’s a bruise. There’s probably a better joke in there somewhere, but her brain is as frozen as the rest of her and she can’t quite make herself think.

Speaking of green… the Mark is sputtering, flickering, bright and then dull again nearly in time with her breathing. It hurts. Maker, it  _hurts_. She hears an odd noise - halfway between a whimper and a whine, a low, painful thing - and takes a moment to realize she’s made it. She wonders if she’s broken any ribs. There isn’t time to check, and part of her is afraid that if she knows how bad it is, she’ll simply give up.

Give up. The thought has a nice ring to it. It’d be warmer, at least.

There’s light at the mouth of the cave - daylight or snow, she doesn’t know. It’s something. It’s hope. She leans on the wall of the cave, rough rock scraping her fingers, and makes her slow way towards it.

Snow, she finds when she finally gets out of the cave. It’s more snow. Of course it is.

She walks against the storm - more like hobbles, really - squinting against the barrage of snow and wind, her eyes watering. She’s shivering so badly it’s painful.

They’re all waiting for her. Her friends, her… Cullen. Hah. Her Cullen. She supposes he is, in some ways.

She could stay out here and let herself sleep.

Never to come back to him. Never to kiss him, to touch him, again. Never to hear him sing under his breath when he thinks he’s alone, to feel the solidity of him and the weight of his gaze. Never to take his hand and tell him he’s worthy, he’s wanted. He’s loved. He has a terrible tendency to believe otherwise, for some reason.

She once told Cassandra that home was wherever she found herself at the time. Bollocks. Home is her friends, home is her sister - and home is eyes the colour of a good whiskey, careful penmanship, Fereldan humility, warm arms and a frankly ridiculous amount of fur.

_Please_ , she thinks. She wants to go home. Even if it’s so tempting to do otherwise - to stop, to become just another thing buried in Haven’s rubble. It’d be a solid end, a good one: save the Inquisition, or what’s left of it, say a few brave-sounding things, quietly go down with the ship.

She’s so tired, and it  _hurts_ , Maker, it hurts, everything hurts.

She raises her head, looks in front of her. White upon white, an endless plain of it…

And she knows with utter, crushing certainty that it  _is_  endless. Her legs are about to give out, but she could walk for years and still not find the camp.

But then, there is no camp. There never has been. There’s only white, and she will die here, she will die here…

“Yvaine!”

She knows that voice. At some point during all this, her knees have indeed given way, and so she crawls - belly in the snow, her hands stinging and going numb, fingers clawed desperately in the powdery, formless whiteness of it, with tears streaming down her cheeks.

“ _Yvaine_.”

 

She gasps into wakefulness. It takes her a moment to adjust, to be able to see properly. Cullen says her name once more, his eyes worried.

Maker, those eyes.

He shifts closer to lean over her. Protective, even here, even now. She can’t help it: she rises to touch him, to run her hands over the muscles of his arm and tuck her face into the crook of his neck. He’s so warm. She thought she’d never be warm again.

He tucks her hair behind her ear, cradling the back of her head. His voice is still a little rough - with sleep or his upset, but she isn’t sure which - when he says, "You were crying in your sleep.” Now he says it, she realizes that her face is wet. "I - “ He seems to lose his words completely. It doesn’t happen often - though he says it used to, a long time ago - and it usually means he’s either mortified or very, very upset. He adds, the words quiet, "I should have known.”

Her heartbeat’s returning to normal, and she realizes what a state she must be in. She tries her best to laugh, even if it comes out horribly mangled and shaky, and replies, “You aren’t a mind-reader. And I don’t get them often. Don’t… don’t worry yourself over it. It won’t achieve anything. Believe me, only one of us can go into the Fade, and the last time I checked, it wasn’t you.”

”How could I forget?” The slightest bitter laugh. He makes to pull away, and she lets him. "Allow me to….” 

He gets up, climbs out of the bed, and she hears him moving round her quarters. She understands after a half-asleep moment that he’s lighting candles. She rolls over to watch him.

Candlelight turns him golden. It makes his hair shine, softens sharp edges, creates shadows that throw the planes of his bare back into relief. He’s bright, strong, like a Chantry statue or some half-woven daydream. He seems to flicker and glow as the candles do. Living light. She allows herself a moment to marvel.

He lights several in a row - slowly, methodically, like he’s practiced at this. She wonders if it’s his time in the the Chantry. His movements are slow, unhurried, and they turn the silence meditative. Or maybe it’s just him. He’s steady, makes it easier to be thoughtful.

After another minute or two, he climbs back into bed, sitting with his back against the headboard. "I used to do this when I - when my sleep was disturbed. I found it helped to remind me where I was. It’s different, with someone else.”

She frowns at him. “Different how?”

He runs gentle fingers along her arm, the touch a brush that’s there and gone before she can really acknowledge it, his eyes on hers. “I have other things to ground me.” He looks away from her, to the candles, and she can tell he’s waiting for her verdict.

She finds that it is better, actually. Warm, different from the stark white of her nightmare.

She sits up, raising a palm to rest it on his cheek. He turns to her and she kisses him, long and slow and sweet. ”Thank you,” she says, when she has the words. "Truly. But shouldn’t you be getting some sleep?”

He replies bluntly, "I’ve worked on less.” He sighs. "And besides, I won’t leave you alone with this. Not unless you want me to. You were crying.”

She can’t help but laugh when she sees his face. The sound of it still isn’t quite convincing, but it’s a start. “Sorry. It’s just that… well, of the two of us, you look more harrowed than I do.”

Finally she gets a proper laugh out of him, even if it’s nearly as weak as hers. He ducks his head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be a mother hen. I was worried about you.”

She tries on a grin like she’d normally give him. It feels odd on her face. “I must say, you make a very handsome mother hen.”

Another small laugh, and she counts it as a sort of victory for them both. She always has, right from the moment she met the wary, imposing man at the other side of the war table. Some things don’t change.

She tries to make the words come out of her mouth. “I… I dreamt I was…. After Haven. The storm.”

Understanding and pain dawn on his face at the same time. “Oh.”

It’s not a pleasant memory for either of them. When she attempted to joke about it in the hours afterwards, he politely but firmly refused to humour her, his eyes far away. Oddly, it was the first time that she thought they might be friends - that she might matter to him.

"Except that…” She inhales, swallows, tries to force the rest of it out. “Except that I knew I wasn’t going to make it. I knew I’d just… die out there. No-one would find me. No-one would, would care.”

She hears his minute, harsh intake of breath, and then he’s shifting to kneel in front of her and take her face in his hands. “I found you. I cared. Maker, Yvaine, I  _care_.”

“I love you.” It falls out of her mouth. It isn’t new, they’ve said it to each other enough times, but this is an occasion where she feels the weight of it. 

She tugs at his arm, moves to lie down, and he understands. Of course he does. He joins her, wrapping his arms round her, resting his chin on her shoulder. It’s not the most comfortable position, but something in her needs it, and so, she suspects, does he. 

“I love you too,” he says in that way he has - softly, always softly, like he still can’t believe he’s been blessed with this. Like he means it.

She draws back a little to look at him - still burnished gold, still bright - then resumes her previous place. 

She remembers his arms. She remembers him carrying her from the blizzard. Her certainty that he wouldn’t drop her. The way he was the only thing that seemed to be real. The gentleness of his hands, and his quiet, murmured reassurances.

She is asleep again long before he blows out the candles. She dreams of light, warmth, and the brightest, finest gold. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the Dragon Age 100 Challenge prompt "Light".


	3. Modern AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on [this post](http://corvou.tumblr.com/post/118781065215/some-shitty-neighbour-aus).
> 
> Written for: "we always run into eachother on the stairs but we’ve never said more than hello but when we found out that we both hate the other neighbours, we became friends"

_Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud._

Yvaine sighs, doing her best to resist grinding her teeth, then returns her eyes to her book. The bass has been slowly driving her insane for an hour and a half now. It wouldn’t be so bad if it were just the odd party - Bull’s nice enough: he threw her a flatwarming and he gave her some of his old books on psychology, so she’s prepared to forgive him a lot - but it’s been four consecutive nights, and it’s  _Thursday_. Little interesting ever happens on a Thursday. They must have had an unusually good fight - or a loss so bad they need to forget it completely.

_“Horns up!”_

It’s muffled, but she knows what Krem’s shout means. It always precedes the knocking back of shots. Or something even stranger. She’s heard stories. There were axes involved.

She rereads a sentence for the fifth time in a minute. No, still not going in.

With yet another sigh, she stands up. She grabs her coat, pulling it on and putting her book under her arm. Perhaps she can find a quiet pub. Or sit on the steps outside for a while, find some distance from the noise.

She heads out, shutting the door behind her and half-running down the stairs. Too fast, really, for such a narrow space, and so she supposes it’s her own fault when she quite literally runs into someone. Or rather, someone’s chest. Someone’s rather impressive, broad chest.

Ah. She looks up. It’s the fellow from 3A, or as Sera insists on calling him, Big Blond Bugger. Somehow Yvaine suspects that isn’t his given name.

“I’m sorry, that was - ”

“I am so sorry.”

They speak at the same time, and then spend a few seconds just staring at each other.

She sees him in the stairwell now and again, but she doesn’t recall them having ever spoken. She doesn’t even think he came to her flatwarming, and most people within about two miles attempted to come to her flatwarming. Somehow, he sounds a little posher than she thought he’d be.

He looks away first. He sighs slightly, rubbing at the back of his neck and looking upwards, to where the bass is coming from.

She can’t help but smile at that. “Impressive, isn’t it?“

The smallest laugh. “That’s one way of putting it.” She amends her earlier thought - not posh, precisely, so much as careful. Choosing his words. Shy, perhaps.

“Is there anywhere in the building it isn’t so bad?” she asks. Perhaps things won’t be quite so awkward if she can coax a few more words out of him.

He looks at the wall and mutters, “I’m not sure there’s anywhere in the city.”

Not bad. She lets herself laugh. “I must be out of luck, then. I was trying to find somewhere to escape it.”

"It wasn’t just me, then.” A small half-smile.

She doesn’t know why she says it, but she does. “You must be having quite the time of it. Your apartment’s right opposite his, isn’t it?” When he nods, she adds,”Well, there’s. Mine’s a fair bit further away. It isn’t quite so bad there. Or if you’d like a pint, misery loves company.”

Ah, there’s that neck-rub again. He scrutinizes the floor. “I, er, I’m flattered and you’re very, ah - “

She grins at him, laughing a little and shaking her head. “A little  _too_ flattered. I wasn’t chatting you up.”

He looks surprised, and impossibly relieved, too. “Oh.” Suddenly he can look at her again. “Right.”

“I’m ‘very ah’?”  

“I - Never mind. Are you really offering?”

“I’m not that cruel. Yes, I’m really offering.”

His awkwardness becomes decidedly more hopeful, hesitant as it is, and he smiles. “You said something about a pint?”


	4. Round the War Table

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A headcanon that just sort of... expanded, somehow.

Most people dread war room meetings. They’re long, tedious, and all too often they simply end in circular arguments that go on for hours, wearying them all.

So Yvaine finds a way to make the time pass.

She does her best to write reasonably detailed reports - and usually succeeds - but there are some things that never go into the reports: little stories that have entertainment value but tell the Inquisition nothing particularly new, good for tavern drinking and feasts but little else. Those she reserves until there’s a tense or particularly boring war room meeting. When those happen, she’ll make an awkward joke or two, and then she’ll tell stories. One moment it’ll be navigation of the Emerald Graves, the next it’ll be, “Did I ever tell you about the time Dorian tried to bring a gate back from the dead?”

Josephine laughs, sharp and interested, interjecting with the odd question. Sometimes the questions are more amusing than the stories themselves.

Leliana is silent, but her lips will twitch. She’ll let a smile creep onto her face, and Yvaine knows that from her, it’s the equivalent of a belly laugh. (Later, when they know each other better and Yvaine has told her to be better than killing, to have faith in herself, she’ll laugh. Yvaine will feel like she’s won the world.)

Cullen is an odd mix of the two. He always gives people his full attention. She feels frighteningly  _listened to_  when she’s talking to him, as if he’s seeing past the rambling an the patter and understanding  _her_. It’s more than a little daunting. He asks far fewer questions than Josephine, but he does ask. That counts for a lot, in Yvaine’s book. He’ll laugh occasionally, and it’s quiet but honest. 

The first time she surprises a big, genuine laugh out of him, it’s louder than usual and a little ridiculous. He seems self-conscious, hand at the back of his neck and cheeks pinking, but she grins at him and his shoulders relax. His eyes are warm, a half-smile still hovering round the edges of his mouth, and he nods briefly, almost imperceptibly, as if he’s thanking her. For what, she’s unsure. Perhaps it’s just for allowing him a moment of lightheartedness, a few seconds to be himself rather than his title.

Over the months, the stories change.

All three of them still get things like the time Bull got his horns stuck in a barrel, but there are other tales too, now.

Those she tells in the quieter hours, between missions and demands and appearances, to a different audience. Those she tells Cullen, curled around him, her head on his shoulder, her feet on his shins so he can mutter about how cold they are. Those she tells him over private dinners, or when she’s halfway through a book with her feet on his lap. Those she sometimes tells him when a nightmare is still hanging over him and he needs a distraction.

Most make him laugh. Some make him inhale sharply and tell her he wishes he’d been there, that she’d been able to speak to him or lean on him. Her favourites are the ones that make him tell his own stories, that let her see things through his eyes for a few minutes and know him better.

She tells him about many things. The time Dorian harassed her about how she had “a thing for strapping young templars”. The time she was writing a letter to him, remembered Leliana read them all and had to severely abridge it, blushing and ripping half of it off - she gave him the torn half later, in person: he read it and blushed, his eyebrows climbing his forehead, then hastened to find them the nearest bed. The time a red templar looked up at her from where he lay on the ground and begged her to kill him, just leave his brother alone. She thought of him, then, about a slight shift, what could have happened if he’d stayed in Kirkwall. She shuddered. Then, of course, there was the time that Solas dug out a wolf pelt from somewhere and attached it to his robes. She, Dorian and Varric had started - loudly - comparing its fluffiness to Cullen’s.

The one commonality between all these?

“I wished you were there,” she’ll tell him, running a hand over his arm. 

She says other things, too, like, “You would have kicked him from here to Wintersend.” 

Or it’s, “They were talking about you, you know. The villagers were talking about the Inquisition and its brave commander. There were people sighing over you. There was  _blushing._ They should form… I don’t know, some sort of club. _”_

He frowns at her. “You aren’t jealous?”

She only beams back at him. “Should I be? Are they all secretly writing you love letters?”

He raises a brow. “Not that I’ve noticed.”

“Exactly. And really, only I get to know that you snore like a sloth demon. It’s just a confirmation I have good taste.”

He looks away from her, his brow furrowed. “Forgive me, but I’m uncertain of that.”

“Oh no. No you don’t. I’ll have you know that my taste is excellent. Oh, look at that - there’s something on your face.”

“There is?” He raises a hand to his cheek, but then she’s taking it away and kissing him. It’s sweet, slow, more than enough to distract him.

She grins at him. “Oh. Odd. It’s only me.”

He sighs long-sufferingly, but runs a hand through her hair, leaning in to kiss her again. 

She’s content to let the stories go for now. This is how they all end anyway: him with her, holding tight at the edge of the world.


	5. Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Yvaine makes a different decision in the Fade, the Inquisitor and the Warden meet in the worst possible circumstances, and this writer's heart breaks. AU to An Unquenchable Flame, thank goodness.

“The Hero of Ferelden!”

The call goes up outside the gates, then it spreads into Skyhold. Yvaine calls her advisers to the war room, because, well, it isn’t the sort of thing that happens every day, is it?

“Is it true?” she asks them.

“It is,” Leliana replies. Her eyes are far away with recollection, secretive. It makes Yvaine remember that Leliana travelled with the woman, considers her a friend. Her mouth is pinched tight, and her brow is furrowed. “She is on her way.”

Cullen is silent, his gaze on the war table, but his shoulders tense, and Yvaine thinks that she hears him inhale the slightest breath. “She hasn’t heard the news,” he says after a moment. He still doesn’t look at any of them.

“About - about the other Warden?” Yvaine tries to find a way to ask. “Will she take it well?”

Leliana looks down at the war table, moves a marker. Her voice is casual, but the weight of her words is obvious. “No, she won’t.”

Yvaine swallows, her throat suddenly dry. “How not-well, exactly?”

“You did not see them during the Blight.”

“Oh. I… I see.”

“No,” Cullen says quietly from his corner of the room, “I’m not sure you do.”

* * *

More than ten years, and the rain still makes her smile. Morgana can’t help but dart out her tongue to catch a few drops. It patters on the stone of the bridge, touches her skin; it reminds her she’s alive. It reminds her she will be alive for so much longer than she planned. With Alistair.

She always thinks of him when it rains. She remembers the first time she saw the sky in fifteen years, freedom, the smell of woodsmoke and armour polish and a sideways smile. She remembers an arm round her shoulders and the moments the bards don’t tell.

Skyhold makes Vigil’s Keep looks like a child’s model. It seems as if it’s just another mountain, jutting and throwing all beneath it into shadow. It’s beautiful. She has to admire it. From all she’s heard of the Inquisition, it isn’t deceptive; the organisation is just as large and powerful as its fortress, and within that fortress…

Leliana. Morrigan. The templar who, last she saw him, was a broken boy. The Inquisitor, yet another Circle mage making the Chantry nervous (she has to laugh slightly at that).

Alistair.

The years without him have made her quiet again. She’s been taking refuge in books, trekking and fighting but not staying in any one place. The need for a cure has pulled her forwards, always. She has told herself that the faster she walks, the faster she rides, the faster she can return to him and to the others she loves: the Wardens, the ramshackle family she’s built over the years. She was perturbed to hear that they’d merged with the Orlesian Wardens. Those were not the plans she drafted for her absence, and when she can, she’ll bring them home again, even if she has to wade through Orlesian  _merde_ to do it.

For now, she has to return home herself.

She wonders whether to pull up the hood of her cloak, but knows it’s no use. She’s already been spotted; she heard a horn and the call go up, and Leliana will certainly know she’s coming. After all, Leliana is  _always_ well-informed.

There are guards at the gates. Some watch her warily; others gape. Many of the Inquisition are Fereldans, she remembers hearing. Maybe she met some of these people the first time everyone thought the world was ending. It’s a strange, unsettling thought; it seems like people forget too easily these days. She’s surprised anyone knows her face.

She thinks of the vials in her pack, carefully wrapped and with spells of preservation laid upon them, and she finds that she’s cheered again.

“Open the gates!” a guard calls.

Another of the guards clears his throat. His hair is a bright red, the colour of blood on snow, and his nose nearly matches it, made blotchy by the cold; it looks quite painful, and it’s by far one of the worse cases she’s seen. The Frostbacks have never been particularly accommodating. “I… uh… Warden Commander Amell?”

She nods. “Inquisition.”

“Right. We, uh, we were told you were coming.”

“I thought so.“ She reaches into her belt, unbuckling a pocket and bringing out a small jar of gentle heat salve. She has several; she can spare one. She offers the jar and a quick smile. “This will help.” She gestures to her nose.

His face becomes even redder as he blushes, but he nods hastily, taking it from her. “Th - thank you, Warden-Commander.”

With a nod in return, she continues through the gates.

The courtyard is bustling except for in one place. The stillness there is conspicuous. Four figures wait on a grand set of steps leading up to what looks like a hall, and she knows at a glance that none of them is Alistair.

Leliana she recognises instantly. She fights the urge to wave, to call to her closest friend; now she has to play her role.

There is a man next to Leliana. He’s large - tall, broad, imposing even from Morgana’s vantage point - and there’s something about his face…  _Oh._ He’s different in many ways, age having treated him well, but his tired eyes and the stubborn set of his jaw are the same. Heat threatens to flood to her face as she remembers the last time they truly met. The thoughts he confessed to having, the shattering of her obliviousness and her shock that a templar could ever want a mage. She almost wants to laugh at how naive she was; she hadn’t even considered that the bastards in plate saw mages as human, never mind as desirable.

There are two other women. One is in skirts, gold glinting at her wrists and neck, some braided into her hair. Showy, but Morgana recalls hearing that the Inquisition has a diplomat, and in such matters, first impressions are everything. Showy is justified in this case, perhaps.

The other is nearly as pale as the snow around her, her skin delicate-looking, the faded tattoo under her right eye and the purple of her lips startlingly dark in comparison. Morgana recognises that from experience, and instantly she thinks,  _Circle mage._ The woman’s eyes are on her, watching carefully. They’re a dark blue, and they’re shrewd. She fits all the descriptions. Inquisitor Trevelyan.

The Inquisition is waiting for her.

Morgana calmly makes her way to the foot of the steps, refusing to be cowed, and there she stops. “Inquisitor,” she says.

Trevelyan smiles, but there’s sadness in her eyes. Coldness washes down Morgana’s spine at that. “Warden-Commander. Welcome to Skyhold.”

Morgana makes a show of looking around, pretending to be distracted. She knows Leliana won’t be fooled, but it’s worth playing along and getting her bearings for the moment. “It’s an impressive fortress.”

“You know, that was what I said. Though now I recall it, there may have been more incoherent  _ooh_ -ing and  _aah_ -ing at the time.”

Morgana looks at Trevelyan. It’s carefully calculated, the appearance of honesty thrown in to make her comfortable - the woman’s eyes are still careful, even if she’s pretending not to be. Still, she appreciates its kindness, and it reminds her of… well. The man she’s looking for. “That was probably the right response.”

“Well, I hoped so. Allow me to introduce my advisers. Ambassador Montilyet…”

The woman weighed down with gold bows her head, smiling gracefully. She has a kind face, a strong nose. “A pleasure,” she says, and seems to mean it.

“…Commander Cullen…”

Morgana sees the slightest bob of his adam’s apple as he swallows hastily, and for a moment, she remembers the nervous boy from the Tower. Then it’s gone, the moment dissipating as he’s the steadfast Inquisition general again. “Commander.” Strange that they became themselves in one stone place, and now they meet again in another.

“…And of course, you know the Divine’s Left Hand.”

Leliana starts down the stairs. Though her eyes are still sad, she smiles, and the sight is reassuring. “How long has it been?”

“Too long,” Morgana replies with a laugh. Years - it’s been years, and sometimes Morgana half-wondered if they were going to drive her mad.

“Indeed.”

And then Leliana is wrapping her arms round her, gentle but firm. Morgana has never been much good with hugs; she tends to freeze, even years after her awkward youth. But Leliana is one of the few people she can enjoy this with. She closes her eyes a moment, returning it, enjoying the steadiness of holding someone she loves.

She steps back, waving a hand at Leliana’s robes and mail. “I approve of the colour scheme.”

“Mm. You always did have a liking for purple. As does the Inquisitor.”

“Perhaps it’s a world-saving thing,” Trevelyan chips in.

Morgana gives her a smile. “It might be.” Then she looks back to Leliana and asks the real question. “So. My lieutenant.”

She feels the air change. That sadness settles heavily over them again, a shroud that seems to silence the busy courtyard.

Later, Morgana will realise that she knew the moment she saw Leliana’s face. For now, she questions, refusing to accept. She can’t - she can’t -

Leliana looks as if she’s attending a funeral, suddenly. “We should speak elsewhere.” Her voice is quiet and calm, but there’s an undertone in it Morgana doesn’t want to think about,  _can’t_ think about.

“Lel…”

“Please.” Leliana’s eyes meet hers, pleading, and then Leliana is taking her arm, shepherding her though the hall and a door. 

* * *

“She’s quieter than I expected,” Yvaine remarks, after the silence left in the Warden’s wake has gone on too long. They’re still standing on the stairs, deliberating what to do next.

“She always was,” Cullen replies. He’s fidgeting, looking at the courtyard, clearly uncomfortable with this entire situation. 

“I should…” Yvaine starts.

Both Cullen and Josephine speak at the same time.

“I wouldn’t - “

“That would be inadvisable.”

Yvaine gives them a grin that feels stiff, false on her face. “’Inadvisable’ is my middle name.”

She turns and walks into the hall, making her way to the door the two went through. She has an idea of where they might be. One more door, and then she slips into a small, silent corridor. Well, silent except for two things: the low hum of magic in the air, crackling with a mage’s distress, carefully constrained but raring to be set free, and the muffled conversation coming through the door. She’s considering knocking, but then she makes out the words and hesitates.

“The Fade, you said. Is he dead?”

“It’s unlikely that he - “

“ _Did they see him die?”_

Leliana sighs. “No.”

A moment of silence. Two. Then: “We go back for him.”

“It isn’t that simple.”

“Trevelyan - she can open paths to the Fade?”

“Theoretically, yes.”

“Then we go back. She’s the one who tossed him aside, so she puts this  _right,_ and she lets me go back for him.”

“There was no choice. She had to - “

The Warden’s voice is low, rough. “I know. Believe me, I know what it is to leave bodies behind you. But she was wrong.”

“Please. This is not what he would want…”

“He can’t  _want_ anything. Either he’s dead, or he doesn’t get a choice.”

“Morgana, he made his choice.“

“It was the wrong one. He’s always - he’s always done this, he’s always tried to die for something, and I told him… I  _told_ him to stay safe. Not to die for a woman who let Kirkwall burn, who has done  _nothing._ ” A sharp inhale. “He made the wrong choice. And he makes his own mistakes, but this isn’t a mistake. This is…”

“He died a hero. He  _chose_ that. He will be remembered as - “

“He is  _not_ a memory!” It’s the first time Amell has raised her voice.

Silence.

“He was my friend as well.”

“I’m - I’m so sorry, Lel. Of course he was, I just… I’m sorry.”

“You’re forgiven.”

“It’s just… They try and make us into stories, and we’re still breathing. They all forget - they all paint people with ‘hero’ and think it’s enough. All the good ones end up dead, and I know what you want to believe, but they don’t - they don’t tell stories because of honour. It’s penance. They think ‘hero’ is better than ‘victim.’ Doesn’t bring them back.”

“Of course it doesn’t. But perhaps it’s not quite as bleak as that.”

“I wish I still believed that. He might - he might be dead, but he’s not a memory. Not yet. I touched him. It was less than - I touched him, and I promised him. I always… I always come back. I  _promised_ him, Lel.”

“He knew. When he… He knew.”

"I healed him, I held onto him for so long, and I always knew I didn’t deserve him but I didn’t think - “ The Warden gulps in a breath. “I can’t. Not without him. I  _can’t_. Please, don’t make me.”

“Oh, Morgana…”

The sound of rustling, a bag being opened. The chime of glass.  “I have the cure. Did you know that? No Calling, for either of us. I was - I did this so he could live, and it’s all…. a waste. A  _waste._ ”

And then Yvaine hears the first sob. Another, and then the others. They’re quiet, as if Amell’s afraid to be heard, as if she’s curled into herself and muffled the sounds by biting her fist. It’s the sort of crying that comes from years in Circle dormitories, too young for a woman of her age. Leliana is making soft sounds, the sentences lost. The words are meaningless anyway.

Yvaine should leave. She wants to - listening to this is making her wilt. She was guilty after the decision in the Fade, but this… she can’t carry this, not with the weight of everything else. She feels awful thinking it, but she’ll fall under the burden.

When Amell speaks again, her voice is steadier, and there’s steel in it. “We go back. If he’s dead, he’s dead, but I need to  _know._ And don’t tell me the Inquisition doesn’t have enough resources - this is practically a small country. If she says otherwise, after what she’s done? Once the Breach is closed, if the attempt doesn’t kill her, I will come back and rip her apart myself.”

“You don’t mean that. You are  _better_ than that.”

Yvaine wants to believe Amell doesn’t, that she is, but there’s nothing kind in her voice. In the place of kindness is a frightening certainty.

Amell takes a deep breath, slow, as if she needs the time to calm herself. “I don’t know. I wish I could believe that, but - I don’t know.” Her voice shakes. She draws in a quick breath, a sharp inhalation that sounds like it hurts. “I… I love him. I love him so much, and you said it wouldn’t hurt. Not like this.”

“I know I did. I’m sorry. I hadn’t thought… I will speak to the others. We will call a meeting about this.”

“Thank you. Just… please. Don’t leave me alone. Not yet.”

“As you wish.”

* * *

_Alistair,_

_I’ve been making decent progress. I’ve found a lead, and I think it might be the answer. I can’t promise anything, but I can hope._

_I’ve heard you’re with the Inquisition at the moment. I’ve heard a few rumours about the Orlesians recently, and they’ve worried me. I can’t get a consistent story, however. I assume your leaving is to do with this? I’ll trust you’re doing the right thing - this is you, after all, so I can’t imagine otherwise. At the very least, you’ll face fewer lectures about using the wrong sort of cheese knife._

_Things here are uneventful, but uneventful is good. “Uneventful” means I’ve barely had to draw my sword, and I even managed to pick up a copy of an old songbook. It includes a version of Little Langdon’s Mabari. Yes, the one with the flying sheep._

_I’m thinking of you, as always. Give Leliana my regards, and try not to murder Morrigan while I’m gone. I’m sorry I can’t be there. It’s been raining a lot here - is it the same where you are? It’s unlikely, I know, but perhaps we’ll end up listening to it together at some point. Maybe even while you read this. I hope so._

_The last stretch of this journey has passed faster than I thought it would, and if this is indeed what I’m looking for, I’ll be home soon. Wait for me, and remember that I love you, always._

_M._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fix-it Fade rescue sequel to this is [over here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4446173/chapters/10101863). Thank the Maker.


	6. The Canticle of Shartan (post-Trespasser)

Yvaine frowns at the dog. “But what do we call him? Not  _Dog._ Dog is a function, not a name.”

Cullen is sitting beside her, somehow more human out of his armour, and leaning against her slightly, his elbow brushing her good arm. He watches her in bemusement. “A  _function?_ ”

“Well, it’s… being a dog is what he does, and what he’s  _for_.” She shrugs, then looks down at her shoulders. “Maker, that still feels odd.” She reaches out a tentative hand and rubs Not Dog behind the ear. It seems to please him, so she turns the rub into a scratch.

Cullen still seems like he doesn’t know what to make of her. Or Not Dog. Then his mouth twitches and he says, “You’re new to this, aren’t you?”

She throws him a mock-glare that quickly dissolves into a smile. “Surprisingly enough, there weren’t that many mabari running round in the Circle.”

“True,” he replies, with a cock of his head. He turns his head, regarding Not Dog so intently it’s comical. “And you’re right, he deserves better than  _Dog_.”

“Hmm… what about Ataashi?” she suggests. It’s not a serious idea, and she’s half-laughing as she says it.

He gives her the flat look that has made many a recruit reach for their brown trousers. It’s never worked on her, not even in those first few weeks at Haven. “I don’t want to think about the  _qunari invasion_ every time I look at our  _dog.”_ He mutters something under his breath.

It’s so quiet she almost doesn’t catch it -  _almost._ “We are not calling him _Branson.”_ When he looks slightly guilty, she adds,“Not even a dog deserves that comparison.”

He snorts, and after a moment, she’s laughing too. He joins in with attending to Not Dog’s ear-rubbing needs, and for a moment they seem like some ridiculous painting. It’s the sort of moment that she almost wishes she could bottle and keep, but then it would lose something. She never thought she would have this. Never thought she  _could._

“Andraste,” she murmurs, “we’re going to be one of those smug married couples everyone hates. The sort with too many in-jokes.”

“And the ability to finish each other’s sentences.” He keeps his eyes on Not Dog, looking appropriately disgusted. Then he stops the ear-rubbing and sits back, just  _looking_  at her, his expression soft. “ _Married.”_

“Married,” she confirms, grinning at him. Her cheeks hurt with the intensity of it. Then he’s reaching over and not even a swift, “ _Cullen!_  I’m sure I smell like wet dog!” can stop him kissing the living daylights out of her.

It takes a few minutes for them to regain their train of thought. He looks at her solemnly and says, “Yvaine, I’m Fereldan. I’ll live.“

That sets her to trying not to laugh again. ”You’re not allowed to do that. Stealing my lines is unacceptable. I should have put something about that in the vows.”

“Mm.” He rests his forehead against hers, letting the moment settle.

“Oh!” She raises a finger. “What about ‘Emmeline’?”

“Your sister would murder us both. And he’s  _male._ ” He separates from her, waving a hand towards Not Dog. “You can see the intelligence in those eyes. He’d never forgive us.”

Not Dog whines, looking at Yvaine pitifully.

She pats the mabari on the head. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” She looks at Not Dog again. “Something Fereldan and… and mabari-ish. How about… Calenhad?”

Cullen sighs. “As if Ferelden didn’t hate us enough.”

“The Inquisition. Not  _us_  personally. And they’d hate us whatever we did. At least we haven’t called him Anora.”

Shaking his head, Cullen says, “Can we forget about Fereldan rulers?” He sighs.

She looks back to Not Dog, and then gives Cullen a grin that can only be described as… wolfish. Ha. “Fen’Harel.”

“Absolutely  _not._ Do that and we might as well call him  _Corypheus_. _”_ He sees her face and glares. “ _No._ Stop looking hopeful.”

“Loyal companions…” She perks up. “Shartan.”

Not Dog barks, his ears pricking up.

“That’s… that’s  _blasphemy!”_

“He likes it,” Yvaine protests.

Not Do -  _Shartan_  barks and gives her arm an odd sort of little headbutt. Definitely approval.

“Cassandra will…”

Yvaine only laughs. ”I remember when she had her sword to my throat. I’ll survive. And it’s better than Maferath.”

“I refuse -”

“Shartan, fetch!”


	7. Five minutes

Five minutes in the morning. It’s all Yvaine needs.

Hawke talked about having a balcony above Kirkwall, about the way she shook when faced with such responsibility, with so many lives to ruin - but Yvaine just smiles. There’s something beautiful about the bustle of Skyhold. In the morning you get the smell of freshly baked bread, the - less enjoyable - smell of manure from the stables, the susurrus of voices as people begin to cluster in the courtyard. She hears the muttered prayers, the curses as someone nearly drops a cabbage off a wagon, the chat she only catches pieces of.

She loves this place. _Tarasylan’Telas_ , she mouths to herself, tasting the syllables, knowing her accent is atrocious. She likes to run her hands along the walls, because the stone is always warm. She’s never encountered that before. She wonders if it’s magic. The archways rise above her, shielding, protective, and the walls wrap around.

In this place where the stone protects, where she rises to greet her friends and the man she cares for each morning, she’s embraced. Loved.


	8. Satinalia (Unfinished)

Here are things Yvaine remembers: a great hall, full of children and some adults. Lines and lines of robed figures, simple decorations, and something a little different on the Circle menu. 

There are other memories, too: of a smaller room but more lavish decorations, of extended family whose names she could never recall, of presents - silk dresses and books, so many books. Emmeline sitting next to her, saying that she’d got fewer presents - a complete lie, of course - and wheedling at her parents for just one or two more, please… She stopped doing that as she got older. She seemed to come to the realisation that it was the thought put into the gifts, rather than the amount, that was the point.

She asks Cullen, once, what his Satinalias were like. He smiles, something far too rare, and says, “The earlier ones were… There were usually decorations. Homemade things. And we had gifts. Nothing too decadent, but we had enough. The later ones I usually spent in the Circle, and then the Gallows.” His cheer dims. “My family were forever telling me to come home for the celebrations.”

She can’t help but ask, “Did you?”

He shakes his head. “Too busy, and then later, too ashamed of what I’d become.” He says all this to the table, not to her. 

She takes his hand, runs her thumb across his knuckles. It’s a difficult question, but she believes it’s probably one worth asking, so she says, “Would you like to see them this year?”

He looks at her, and surprise crosses his face when he says, “Actually I would. It’s been a long time. I just… I doubt the Inquisition could spare me, and perhaps it’s been too long…” 

He drifts off somewhere else, then - he has that look - and she leaves it. Not her family, and not her place. This is something that’s his alone. 

The festivities draw closer. Josephine directs the decoration of the great hall, an operation on a scale that makes Cullen look at her with admiration. Yvaine resigns herself to the fact that Satinalia will be spent with her Skyhold family, rather than with the one who appear to have forgotten her, or with Cullen’s.

And of course, that’s when the Rutherfords turn up on their doorstep. Just her luck.


	9. Of Gifts

 Cullen frowns at the little vase and single flower on his desk, as if reassessing it will make it realise its own incongruity and disappear.

He blinks. No, it’s still there. He wonders if some recruit has made a mistake, or if this is one of Josephine’s directives now that nobles are visiting.

Except… He approaches it warily, squinting at it. It’s Prophet’s Laurel. It’s rarely used for purely ornamental reasons; it’s generally found in Chantries. It has associations of faith, and… perseverance, or continuance on a certain path. For a moment he wonders - surely this can’t be about the lyrium? A veiled threat, perhaps? An _I know of your weakness and soon everyone else will, too?_

He shakes his head. He’s always had a tendency to overthink, to see strategies and patterns where there are none.

He’s uncertain whether he should, but he leaves the little flower to its devices as he sets to work on the latest series of reports. It gives off a pleasant scent that reminds him of his mother’s dresses, and it’s nowhere near strong enough to irritate him. It’s almost reassuring.

* * *

He asks Josephine the next day whether this is one of her initiatives to impress the Orlesians. She frowns at him, puzzled, and says she’s given no such orders.

* * *

 He dismisses it as a one-off, but four days later he returns to his office and there are several small flowers in that same vase. They’re white, hanging bells that almost remind him of the snowdrops that used to appear in the Chantry gardens in Honnleath, with a few differences. Size, mainly. They’re more like foxgloves.

He remembers one of the sisters telling him about the plants that could be found, their distinctive scent.

Crystal grace.

He mentally retraces his steps, wondering if someone has snuck in here while he was gone and replaced them. Someone who knows his habits and was allowed through by the guards? First he’d been to see Yvaine (he represses a flush at the memory of her kissing him soundly before adjusting his collar, muttering, “Oh dear, I think I’ve ruined you,” and he’d had to restrain himself from saying, _Yes, I think you have_  and kissing her again), and she’d waved him off as he’d gone to discuss something with Dorian. Then he’d returned here. He can’t have been more than three quarters of an hour.

He examines them carefully. They aren’t wilted or darkly coloured, they don’t appear to be a threat… He frowns. Perhaps they really are well-meant.

He notes it down in his journal, however, just in case.

* * *

It happens again five days later, and he accepts it. Someone is leaving him flowers. Small purple flowers this time, and he ends up carrying with him as he wanders into the library to find a book on botany. 

Dorian intercepts him with a raised eyebrow and a bitten-back grin. “Why, commander, I didn’t know you cared.”

He can feel himself flushing. “It’s not… I was trying to find out what kind they were.”

Dorian nods. “Ah.” He squints at the flowers. “Delphinia, if I’m not mistaken. Often used to mean lightness of touch, or lightness of heart.” At Cullen’s questioning look, he says, “Mother was rather fond of such games. They were all the rage back home. Yet another way to laugh at those who weren’t in your circle. Rumour has it that there’s a certain bouquet which translates as either 'bless this house’ or ‘you and your donkey,’ depending on the book.”

Cullen frowns at the… delphinia. “I really hope they don’t mean that.”

Dorian snorts, and when Cullen looks up, the mage is handing him a thick tome. “ _Giles’ Botanie._ It’s relatively good with classification, although if you want to know all about someone’s hidden admiration, I have a few…” He makes to turn back to the shelves, and Cullen stops him in abject embarrassment. It seems so… frivolous, learning a game to be played at nobles’ parties. He wonders if someone is laughing at a peasant commanding the Inquisition’s army. And yet it seems an awful lot of effort to go to for a smear campaign. Half the troops wouldn’t even know of its significance.

* * *

 Four days later, Cullen’s in his office when Dorian walks in to ask if he’s interested in a game of chess. He’s halfway through his offer when his eyes alight on the new flowers, and there’s such unabashed glee in his face that Cullen tenses preemptively.

“Now those look like some sort of… saxifraga.” He looks as if he’s struggling not to laugh. “If they’re using the same meanings as in the Imperium… I was always told it meant humour, or silliness. Well, I was always told rather pointedly, but that’s another story.” He grins at Cullen. “It may be in flower, but someone’s definitely telling you to lighten up.”

Cullen just glares at him. “You said there were books?”

* * *

It can’t be a coincidence; there _are_ meanings. Over the next few days, the books tell him he’s been given two embrium flowers ( _the sentiment is shared_ , or  _I feel the same),_ some acacia _(subtlety,_ or _secret love),_ a scarlet camellia flower ( _excellence or ability, but… a lack of pretension?_ He feels rather flattered), a lilac flower (something about… _early love_ or _a developing relationship)_ and what appear to be pansies (the translations seem to vary wildly - apparently they can be _forget me not,_ but also _you are in my thoughts_ or _think of me)_ _._

Oh, he’s certainly thinking of them. And he’s starting to think he knows what’s happening.

* * *

 It’s been three weeks since the first flower when he sees what the books tell him are burgundy flowers. The books say they mean something about _unknowing beauty,_ but he’s preoccupied with thinking of how exactly their colour matches… He raises a hand to his mouth, in case there are smudges of that dark paint left over from Yvaine’s lips. He remembers her touching his cheek and laughing, saying, “You really are that oblivious, aren’t you? Haven’t you heard the recruits fawning over you?”

A game played by nobles. The guards letting them in without question. Dorian’s amusement, because he probably already knew, she tells him _everything._

Cullen smiles to himself, all but vindicated in his suspicions, and unrolls a sheet of parchment to begin writing.

* * *

That evening finds him at the stairs to Yvaine’s quarters with a daisy in one hand (after some rather careful thought and a few checks to make sure he wasn’t insulting anyone’s mother) and the parchment in the other.

She opens the door and stares at him in surprise. Then a smile grows on her face as she sees what he’s holding. “I’m surprised it took you so long.” He wordlessly hands her the parchment by way of reply, and she reads down the list of flowers and meanings. She looks back to him afterwards. “How terrifyingly precise. Well, I wouldn’t put it so simply. Burgundy is more _you’re gorgeous and frustratingly unaware of it, and the guards keep laughing at me because I’m staring,_ but yes, you got the gist. I doubt the book would’ve had that exact translation anyway.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Were you ever going to tell me these things in person?”

“I already have, for most of them. But myself, I thought, words won’t brighten up your office and give you a reminder when I’m not here.”

“You have a point,” he admits. “I have rather enjoyed them.”

Her eyes fall to the daisy, and she takes it, twirling the stem between her fingers. “Cheer, or… love.” She grins, looking into his eyes. “Well, you’ve told me that one enough times yourself.”

“That, and it…” He tries not to let his embarrassment get the better of him. “It reminded me of you.”

She squints at it. “Is my hair really that yellow?”

He snorts. “Your _temperament._ Few would ever describe me with a daisy.”

Her grin returns, widens. “Oh, I would. Particularly when you’re this shade of bashful. Now, since I’m off to the Hinterlands tomorrow, I was thinking… dinner?”

* * *

After he says goodbye to her the next morning, he finds a single red rose on his desk. For that one, he doesn’t need the book.


	10. Please

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Potential DA4/post-Trespasser angst. Prompted by "'I love you' - Broken, as you clutch the sleeve of my jacket and beg me not to leave."

“I love you. And I can’t let you do this,” Cullen says.

Yvaine sighs. “But you’ll have to.”

He takes her arm. His eyes are wide, desperate, and she suddenly finds herself thinking of the man who shook as he bared himself to her, talking about blood and torture and Ferelden. That was years ago, but she sees some of it now. “ _Please._ He could have killed you, and he chose to let you go. You’ve already lost…”

And they both look at the stump where the rest of her other arm used to be. She looks back up to glare at him. “I thought you, of all people, would understand me having no use for pity.”

“Pity has nothing to do with it _._ I’ve watched you walk to your death before, and _I will not do it again._ Not as your husband.”

“So what, Solas destroying the world is now _someone else’s problem?”_

“You are _no longer the Inquisitor_. Please… don’t do this to yourself. To me.”

“And you’re no longer my commander. You’re not giving orders.” She raises her chin and stares him down. 

Or tries to, at least. It’s never worked, not with him. He watches her with those impossibly sad eyes, resolute, and that’s worse than the anger. It’s the bloody _love_ that’ll destroy her. “It’s not an order if I’m begging.”

And they’ve always been strange this way: sometimes she can simply _read_ him. It’s odd to watch him clinging to her, his face like this. Anyone else would be on their knees, but it he can convey it all with a look. It’s a terrible gift he has.

She almost loses track of her thoughts. “Oh, Maker. Don’t give me that look. You’ll make me cry. I… I rather like this world. I like living in it. And last I checked, if it dies, we die too.”

“You don’t have to… Just _step back._ There are people - “

She replies, “People aren’t me.” Sighing, she adds, “And you’ve lost too much. I’d rather not be on the list.”

He touches her face, fingers tangling in her hair. “Then don’t _go.”_

She kisses him quickly, clumsily. He tastes like salt, and she knows then that he’s crying. She thinks it might kill her. “I love you. I’m sorry.”

And she runs.

 


	11. Daydream

When he was a younger man, Cullen had a recurring daydream. A sunset, or close to it, the afternoon beginning to fade into evening. A woman sitting in the grass with him, watching it. No Chantries and no Circles; simply sitting, watching her as she watched the sky. He would wait for her to turn round, and somehow she never did; she’d simply stay there, bright and unreachable.

He’s thirty-two years old, and on some days, that homesick boy is far away. The daydream returned strongly when he was serving the Inquisition, and he’d wondered why; he’d wondered why, more often than not, she was blonde. He’s always been rather slow on the uptake.

It’s not quite a sunset, though it’s close. The low sun turns her hair gold, and for a moment she almost seems to glow. In those seconds, truly, she looks chosen, and he can’t help but look at her. He has always been able to spend far too long simply admiring her, but today, things are different.

Yvaine turns to him and grins. “Constant rain, but when the sun comes out, it does make an effort. That’s Ferelden for you.” Her face softens, and she raises a hand to touch his cheek before asking him solemnly, “I don’t have grass stains on my arse, do I?”

He smiles. It used to happen less, but these days the strangeness of feeling it on his face has almost gone. “I think you might have picked up a few daisies.”

She hastily brushes at her breeches. “Oh Maker. The poor things didn’t deserve death by me. The mighty Inquisitor, killer of flowers. And I’m sure I didn’t ask for any help - _Cullen,_ stop laughing at me…” She sighs. “But honestly. Why _are_ you looking at me like that? The puppy eyes are worrying me.”

He sobers. “Because I love you.”

She blinks. “Oh. Well, that’s all right then.” Her smile returns. “I love you too, by the way. Just in case you needed the reminder.”


	12. Hat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For "'I love you' - When the broken grass litters the floor."

_When the broken grass litters the floor_

“Are you… chewing on them?”

Yvaine throws aside another stalk, and then grins at him from beneath a very large, very floppy hat. It almost looks as if she’s stolen one of Cole’s spares. “Bear with me. I’m just trying to get the technique right. It has to have the right… attitude.”

“What?”

“You know. The casual disregard and the glaring at newcomers.”

“What are you actually… doing?”

She grins, looking out across the fields. “The Inquisitor’s long-held dream of being a farmer is finally realised.”

“Yvaine, this isn’t even your field.”

“Oh, I know. But he let me borrow it for a while. I did say I’d reimburse him for any ruined wheat.”

“ _Yvaine_ …”

“I love you, but just… let me have this one. Please?”

He sighs, adjusts her hat, and leans on the fence next to her.


	13. Prompt: “You’re awful. I love it.”

It’s quite something dealing with Orlesian nobles who are either trying to propose marriage or buy the Inquisition out from under her. She has to watch her every move and put on a decent front - which is rather difficult when Cullen’s standing behind them, listening to the entire conversation, and she can see his eyebrows raising and his teeth grinding with every other sentence. The latter, in particular, is obvious, made more so by his scar. At one point, their eyes meet over a minor lord’s head, and it’s all she can do to follow a word of the conversation.

She makes it until the last of them - Leanne du Flambeau, of the yellow lipstick, pompous turn of phrase and truly  _exuberant_ hat - has left, then she bursts out laughing.

Josephine stares at her, aghast. “…Inquisitor?”

“It’s _him.”_ And she points at Cullen, trying to aim straight while nearly doubled over. “Have you seen his… _”_ She loses the word. “… _everything?_ ”

He’s stone-faced: it must be the templar training. “I have no idea what she’s talking about,” he tells Josephine seriously.

Josephine looks distinctly sceptical. “It would be better not to offend the visiting dignitaries. Even if their manners do leave something to be desired.”

“Oh, I know. But he has this face, the one that says, _If he unsubtly propositions you one more time I’m going to shove his pointy boots where the sun doesn’t shine._ You know the one.”

Josephine nods, a trifle wearily.

Then Yvaine’s eyes dart to Cullen. “I see you. Your mouth twitched.”

“Yvaine…” he sighs. And it happens again, stealthy as it is. Then he gives up the fight, and lets the smile creep onto his face, obviously trying not to laugh.

“Bastard,” Yvaine says, and claps a palm on his shoulder - she has to reach up a fair bit to do it. “See, this is why I love you.”


	14. “I love you” - said in a way I can’t return (Bleak AU)

Cullen wonders if the Mark shaped the Fade around her, disrupted the dream-fabric to such an extent that it could never quite be the same again. Perhaps it left a shadow or an echo there when it consumed her. (He has other nightmares, sometimes. He’d had no other option but to read the report of what happened at the last eluvian, refusing to do so privately despite Leliana and Josephine’s strong suggestions and pleading eyes. He remembers reading Cassandra’s description of Yvaine crumbling to dust under her fingers, blowing away in the wind until not even the glow of the Anchor was left.)

He doesn’t know. All he knows is that now, she comes to him in dreams.

It’s not like the dreams of Amell. There are no demons pulling strings, and nothing is sinister. There are no deals and no demands. Perhaps that is worse. Certainly, it may be more cruel.

She - or the shade of her, the memory - comes to him and smiles at him. Alive and whole, though there is a sadness in her face that never quite leaves. “I’ve missed you.” Sometimes there will be other things, quiet jokes, apologies for being “indisposed,” and she’ll ignore his glare. 

Always, she’ll press a kiss to his lips and say, “I love you. Always will.”

He’ll open his mouth to respond -

\- and wake, shaking, reaching out for a dead woman.


	15. “I love you" - Broken, as you clutch the sleeve of my jacket and beg me not to leave

“I love you. And I can’t let you do this,” Cullen says.

Yvaine sighs. “But you’ll have to.”

He takes her arm. His eyes are wide, desperate, and she suddenly finds herself thinking of the man who shook as he bared himself to her, talking about blood and torture and Ferelden. That was years ago, but she sees some of it now. “ _Please._ He could have killed you, and he chose to let you go. You’ve already lost…”

And they both look at the stump where the rest of her other arm used to be. She looks back up to glare at him. “I thought you, of all people, would understand me having no use for pity.”

“Pity has nothing to do with it _._ I’ve watched you walk to your death before, and _I will not do it again._ Not as your husband.”

“So what, Solas destroying the world is now _someone else’s problem?”_

“You are _no longer the Inquisitor_. Please… don’t do this to yourself. To me.”

“And you’re no longer my commander. You’re not giving orders.” She raises her chin and stares him down. 

Or tries to, at least. It’s never worked, not with him. He watches her with those impossibly sad eyes, resolute, and that’s worse than the anger. It’s the bloody _love_ that’ll destroy her. “It’s not an order if I’m begging.”

And they’ve always been strange this way: sometimes she can simply _read_ him. It’s odd to watch him clinging to her, his face like this. Anyone else would be on their knees, but it he can convey it all with a look. It’s a terrible gift he has.

She almost loses track of her thoughts. “Oh, Maker. Don’t give me that look. You’ll make me cry. I… I rather like this world. I like living in it. And last I checked, if it dies, we die too.”

“You don’t have to… Just _step back._ There are people - “

She replies, “People aren’t me.” Sighing, she adds, “And you’ve lost too much. I’d rather not be on the list.”

He touches her face, fingers tangling in her hair. “Then don’t _go.”_

She kisses him quickly, clumsily. He tastes like salt, and she knows then that he’s crying. She thinks it might kill her. “I love you. I’m sorry.”

And she runs.


	16. Tradition (Mistletoe fic, AU)

There’s that crisp sweetness in the air that you get during the run-up to Satinalia, and Yvaine admits, even with an Inquisition to run and a hole in the sky, she’s looking forward to it. If they’re not all dead by then, that is. But that possibility is seeming less and less likely. Some days, she even thinks they might win this, not just survive it. Oh, hopeless optimism. Don’t tell the Breach in case it gets ideas.

She sighs, trying to put the less immediate future out of her mind, and steps into Cullen’s office.

It’s thankfully not full of troops, and he’s leaning, half-sitting against his desk, inspecting a report. She almost wants to glare at him, because he’s stolen  _her_ spot. Not that she has a spot, or that this is her office, but she leans against his desk and bothers him while he stands awkwardly on the other side of it, trying to work and not to laugh at the same time. Or so she thought.

She clears her throat, coming to stand in front of him.

He gives her a brief smile and, “Inquisitor,” before squinting at the report again as if it’s personally offended him; he’s probably waiting for her to start rambling.

And she’s not about to disappoint him, so she opens her mouth - and pauses, catching something out of the corner of her eye. It’s a bit of green, the white of berries.

“You appear to have… a plant,” she says, staring above his head.

He looks at her, and then up at the twig hastily tied and hanging from the ceiling - almost directly above his desk, in fact. They both realise what it is at the same time, judging from the way he goes a little pink round the edges and absentmindedly puts the report aside.

She has to break the silence somehow. “Sprigleaf.”

His face darkens, and he mutters, “ _Sera_.”

Grinning, she replies, “Oh, I wouldn’t put it past Bull.”

He tilts his head, running a hand through his hair and exhaling. He’s tired, she can tell, though it doesn’t look like it’s been a bad day (the sort with capitals: A Bad Day) - he’s slightly rumpled, stubble coming in heavily and his hair beginning to curl its way out of captivity. You wouldn’t notice unless you’d been looking closely, but she has, for quite a long time. She doesn’t know why. She worried about him, she supposes, because despite all her idiocy, he’s become a friend.

She’ll never know what makes her say it. Maybe she just likes the taste of her own boot, or maybe it’s… something else. Either way, the words fall out of her mouth. “So, should we… bow to tradition?” she asks, with a laugh, and he looks at her, slowly, with surprise.

And it’s a bad, obvious joke, because he’s going to change the subject or glare at her.

But he leans towards her, incrementally, still with the hint of a flush in his cheeks, and his eyes fall to her mouth -

And her own surprise must be obvious, because he snaps back until he’s practically pressed against the desk, his spine rod-straight. “I…” he starts, rubbing at the back of his neck and unable to meet her eye.

It worries her, watching him shrink, and she can see his embarrassment clear as day. She wants to tell him it’s nothing, that kissing games were common enough in the Circle, that he’s her friend and he’s… he’s _Cullen_ and she never wanted to make him uncomfortable. So she decides on what she used to do in the Circle: brazening it out. It seems like the best route. She grins at him. “Oh, no, go on. As said, it’s tradition.”

He stares at her. “You… want…?”

Shrugging, she says, “Why not? It’s Satinalia. Well, nearly.” She gestures upwards. “Can’t disobey the sprigleaf.”

“Right. Yes,” he says distractedly, and he swallows. Then he’s leaning towards her again, slowly, a request for permission.

This time, she leans in, too.

Their lips meet, and it’s a polite, chaste brush, exactly the sort of thing people do at parties. Except when he makes to move away, one of them, or perhaps both… pauses. And suddenly the end of the first kiss is becoming the beginning of a second one - exploratory, hesitant. He lingers on her upper lip, taking it gently between his, before returning to that slow sweetness. She only realises she’s taken his arm when her fingertips touch cold steel. She realises, too, that his hand is on her cheek - she can feel the leather of his glove against her skin. It should jar her, but instead it feels like making some sort of decision. It’s so simple; everything is when she’s with him, she can trust him, she doesn’t have to stop and _think_. It makes perfect sense to angle her head, nipping gently at his lips until his mouth opens and the kiss turns into something deeper. The troops outside, the clatter of Skyhold - it’s all far away; the only thing she can hear is their breathing. All she’s aware of is being wrapped up in him and held; the roughness of stubble against her skin, the mouth kissing hers, the man against and around her. He might well be holding her up, steady and reliable as ever; her knees certainly aren’t. His arm is warm round her waist - in fact, she’s warm everywhere, breathless and trembling. She hears herself make a low sound and press closer, and then his tongue is in her mouth, subtly at first, then stroking against hers, still with that same patient gentleness. She feels herself flush, because this is _Cullen_ and he never knows quite what to do when she even half-flirts, and she hadn’t even considered… But it feels right, or she wouldn’t be kissing back. It all feels right, like it’s always been there waiting for her and she’s simply never taken the time to see it. And they’re kissing so tenderly, as if there’s something meant by it, as if they’re - 

They part abruptly to breathe, panting. 

His voice is rough when he says, “Yvaine…”

“Oh,” she manages. “Well… I’m impressed. Haven’t had a sprigleaf kiss like that in a while.” _Or ever._ She’s never had one like that, and certainly not one that good.

He still seems afraid. “I’m - “

“Don’t you dare apologise. I’m thanking you. That was lovely.” She tries to keep her voice airy, and it certainly isn’t shaking. Must be a trick of the light. She just thanks the Maker that she didn’t wear the lip-paint today, only foreseeing a day of paperwork, or the troops would have a very smudged commander to gossip about.

He nods once, awkwardly, and she’s turning to leave when she hears the words, said so quietly she almost misses them: “So were you.”

She smiles at him over her shoulder, an odd ache in her chest, and then she’s stepping out into the sunlight. He’s watching her go, she can feel it. She ducks her head, trying her best not to look like she’s just snogged the commander of the Inquisition, and wonders why she’s still thinking about it. Just a silly little sprigleaf dare, surely.

Surely. But then, why is she still smiling?

 


	17. “Oh, just digging myself a nice grave, you?” (AU)

Snow is falling softly, and Cullen blinks it out of his eyes as he makes his way back to his office. He pauses at the sound of voices around the corner. Whatever it is, it’s none of his business, but he recognises Yvaine’s voice, and he can’t help himself. She always seems to overwhelm his better nature. He looks, keeping to the shadows.

“Or you could simply _tell him.”_  Cassandra sighs.

Yvaine’s pacing, her arms crossed, but she uncrosses them to gesture expansively. She looks up. “That’s - that’s a _terrible_ idea, no, do you have any others?” She frowns. “Also, you shouldn’t be _encouraging_ me, aren’t you normally the one going on about being _sensible_ and…” She waves a hand. “Something something mumble chain of command.”

“Normally.” Cassandra’s voice is wry, and there’s a smile to it, though amusement seems to be warring with exasperation. “But this Inquisition is far from _normal_.”

Yvaine snorts. “An understatement if ever I’ve heard one. I just… how do I even _broach_ that? ‘I know you happen to be my best friend in this Inquisition and it’s possible I’m technically your boss, but I think about you far too much and frankly sometimes I get distracted in war room meetings because you’re right over _there_ and you smile at something I’ve said and then my mind breaks.’”

“I still have no idea why you are asking me,” Cassandra replies. 

“Because you know him and you’re my other best friend in this Inquisition? And because if Dorian hears me talk about this one more time he’s threatened to freeze all my favourite socks?”

“I can almost understand the Tevinter,” Cassandra mutters. “Cullen is not some… delicate maiden. If you think your feelings are returned - “

And Cullen’s pause becomes a rapid halt; if they mean what he thinks they mean… Surely they can’t be… He almost trips, and his armour scrapes against the wall. He winces.

And both women turn.

For a moment, shameful as it is, he considers running. But Cassandra says, “Show yourself,” and perhaps some part of him will always know how to respond to a command.

He steps into the light, knowing his gait is stumbling, awkward.

“Oh,” Yvaine says, very quietly, and then she turns her back on him.

“Yvaine…” he begins.

Her voice is rising with her upset, and she’s rubbing at her forehead, he imagines; it doesn’t sound like she’s crying, more like she’s… resigned. Utterly resigned. She’s already rejected herself for him. “I’m absolutely fine, thank you, just digging myself a nice grave, how are you?”

Cassandra is giving him a glare worthy of Maferath and stepping away, walking back out into the night. He’s glad of it; this is difficult enough.

He walks forwards, albeit tentatively, until he reaches her, and he lays a hand on her elbow. Some would fight or lash out at him; she isn’t the type to do so physically.

“I think we need to talk,” he says, keeping his voice quiet.

“What about? Me being… an absolute idiot?” she sighs.

“About the fact I feel the same.”

She stares at him.

And he takes her hand, and he begins to speak.


	18. “I think I may have found a song that accurately describes how I feel toward you.”

Cullen’s singing under his breath as he clears books off his desk and reshelves them. Something about bright hair and a fine bearing, about beauty and grace and nobility, and Yvaine’s fine until he turns at the sound of her footsteps. His eyes meet hers, and then his ears go pink and he looks away guiltily - and she knows.

She sighs. “This isn’t something about Andraste, is it?”

He shakes his head, and the hint of a smile creeps onto his face. “It’s ‘The Tale of Ser Andrien.’”

“What’s it about?”

He pretends to be casual, rearranging papers on his desk. “It mostly speaks of her bravery, and her beauty.” He’s moved across the room before she quite realises it, and his hand slips to her waist. He adds, more quietly, “And the jokes she used to tell.”

“I… see,” she says. “She sounds like fun. Would… would you mind singing it to me?”

“I will. Later,” he responds, and kisses her softly, before wrapping her in his arms. “I’ve missed you. The Western Approach is… a long way away.” He sighs.

“I know. I’ve missed you too.” And she lets herself rest against him, closing her eyes.


	19. There Are Days  (post-Trespasser)

When Cullen finds her, Yvaine is sitting on their bed, and the only light in the room is a faint, glowing green. For a moment he tenses, unable to help himself, certain that there’s a rift, that -

No. Panic solves nothing. He shakes himself, hard, and looks again.

It’s… an arm, of some kind. It glows in the light, and it’s translucent; from her elbow downwards, there is only slightly rippling light. She lifts it, examining it, and she’s smiling faintly. “Remember when you used to blow out the candles, and I’d annoy you by using my own personal nightlight because I didn’t want to stop reading?”

“Yes,” he says quietly. “I remember.” He moves to the bed and eases himself onto it, sitting next to her. “I used to tell you that if a Venatori got past your guard because you were half-asleep…”

“…you’d get Dorian to drag me back from the grave so you could bollock me yourself?”

He pauses. “I thought I was milder.” He hopes. “Besides, he was just as bad.”

“It was mostly implied.” She smiles at him properly now, then looks back to the arm. “I suppose all that Knight-Enchanter training was good for something.”

He nods. “I assumed it came from you.”

“My magic, yes. It’s taken months to get it right, and it’s still not…” She flexes the fingers, and he can see it: there’s a delay. She frowns, and grits her teeth. “It takes… work.”

“Does it hurt?”

She shakes her head. “Might when I’ve been doing it for an hour. Mostly it’s the focus. I have to keep making sure I’m… I couldn’t do it all the time.” She looks at him, and raises a brow. “It won’t bite you, you know.”

He glances at her once more, meets her eye, and then reaches out, until his fingertips touch it. He’d almost expect his hand to go through it, but he’s dealt with physical manifestations on rare occasions and they tend to have at least some solidity.

It isn’t skin. It feels like warmth, as if he’s been in the sun on a hot day, but a _solid_ warmth. It makes the hair on his arms stand up. He can feel her magic thrumming against his skin, softly. Before he can do anything more, it’s moving under his fingers, and he looks at her questioningly - but she’s concentrating, biting her lip. And then… then she takes his hand.

She looks up at his sharp inhale, and the fear and hurt flash through her eyes before she can conceal them. (He remembers this: a hundred, a thousand times. She’d do it quietly on the battlements, reaching for him without even needing to look. She’d do it when he’d woken from a nightmare, or when she had. He’d look down, and through the gaps between his fingers - a faint, green glow.) 

“I didn’t mean - “ he starts. “It was just surprise.” He sighs. “It’s the magic, not you. It’s… not a kind I’ve encountered often.” 

He hopes that that’s obvious. Things have been mostly the same since the Qunari invasion, and since… Solas. She’s relearning things, and he’s tried not to intrude or be a mother hen - he’s mainly spent his days working and listening to increasingly creative swearing. She barely needs his help, and if she does, she’ll ask.

“It’s all right. It is a little odd. Just… give me a moment.” She shifts and he wonders -

She wraps her arms around him. She holds him tightly, her left palm splayed against his back. Through his shirt, it’s almost the same. He finds that he’s closing his eyes, exhaling and settling against her.

“Fuck, I’ve missed that,” she sighs against his shoulder.

He pulls her closer and presses a kiss to the top of her head, lingering there.

“Is there a reason it’s… green?” he asks, after a second has passed.

“Just a silly little joke. Continuity. Too soon?” He can hear the rueful smile in her voice; that tone has become far too familiar over the past few weeks.

“It was your Mark, and your arm. It’s not my place to say.”

“Cullen - “

“I’m just glad you’re alive to… make unfortunate jokes.”

“It’s odd. The Mark… I sort of got used to it. Like an old friend.” She laughs, but it turns wet, with a sharp inhale at its end, and she presses her face against his neck. 

She’s hiding; he can feel it. “That’s almost understandable.”

“Almost?” she says, again with a small, broken laugh. 

“Forgive me. The Fade has never opened a portal in my hand.”

One more of those laughs, and then she shakes against him. “I miss it,” she says at last, and his neck begins to grow damp. “The bloody thing nearly killed me, and I… I miss it. I miss holding a staff properly and being able to spar like I _mean_ it, and I miss being… I miss being useful. For a while, I could do something in the world no-one else could.”

“At great cost.”

She draws back and looks him in the eye. Her own are glistening in the dim light. “ _I would have paid it_. No-one could ever understand it, but I think you’ve come close. Imagine it. Dying _for_ something, not just because your body could no longer be arsed. Knowing it would be worth something. Isn’t it… isn’t that _wonderful?_ I mean, one woman for the world - it’s not so much, is it?”

“Far too much,” he says, surprised at the roughness in his voice, and then he’s tugging her to him and holding her again, needing a solid reminder that she is _here_ and whole. “You are _not_ the Mark. You have plenty to give without it. And you saved this world, not Solas’ bloody Anchor.”

Suddenly there is… less of her against him, that unnatural warmth gone, and he has to adjust his balance slightly. He doesn’t care.

“Damn,” she mutters. “Guess the prototype needs a bit of work. I lost my focus. You should be flattered. I shouldn’t have to - _Fuck._ ” She sobs once, sharply, a high sound that seems to surprise them both, and sags against him. A few more sobs follow and he sits, stroking her hair, her back, trying to keep points of contact without caging her. Her breath is gasping and raw when she manages, “I’m sorry. Ignore me, I’m being…”

“Don’t apologise. There’s no need.” 

“Is that an order, commander?” 

He sighs resignedly, because it’s what she’s waiting for. “A request from your idiot husband. I should have said before…”

“Cullen - “

He falls silent. “Yvaine?”

“I just, I meant to say. The Mark, for all its faults… it gave me you. Without it, you wouldn’t _be_ my idiot husband.”

“I didn’t fall in love with the Mark. Perhaps we wouldn’t have met, but that thought is…” He sighs, stroking her shoulder, and repeats her words of years ago to her. “A life without you? Never.”

She smiles at that, through tears. “Suave, aren’t you?”

“I’ve been called a lot of things, but that isn’t one of them. But for you…” He gives her a smile of his own. “…I do the best I can.”

That half-broken, rough laugh. “Ooh, Ser Rutherford!” She presses her hand to her chest, then to his, and flutters her eyelashes at him. It’s obvious even in the low light; they really are very long. Then she pauses. “You know, on the other hand” - and she pulls back, waggling her fingers with a devilish smile and a _Get it? Get it?_ expression that makes him sigh again - “the jokes might make you kill me before anything else can.”

And that, finally, is too much. “Don’t - “ He looks away from her, swallowing. Remembering, with sudden terrible clarity, watching the Mark overwhelming her and pushing her down to her knees, her eyes glowing green and with nothing familiar in them, and wondering if she’d become a Fade-thing. She’d looked like something out of his nightmares, some terrible prophecy of the near-future. “Never… never that.” The concern washes over her face, and he wants to hit himself. He’s bowing to his own fears and self-pity.

“Cullen…” she starts again, moving towards him. “I’m sorry.”

He grits his teeth. “No. I am. I didn’t mean to worry you. You’re…” He touches her arm, the flesh and blood part of it, avoiding most of the scar tissue that he knows still troubles her. “All I see is you. If this has to tell me anything, it tells me that you survived, because of your resilience, and your bravery. Because of your mind and your magic. But it’s you as much as the rest. It’s only… it’s only you. And I love _you,_  not your arm and not the Mark.”

“Oh,” she says, and her voice is quiet. She tilts her head. “Well, I mean, I had an idea, what with the marriage and the staying around afterwards. I was just… I was just checking.” She swallows. “And I love you too. In case you’d forgotten.”

“I’m reassured,” he says dryly. “There are times…” He tries to find the words; it’s easier around her, in many ways, but even now, there are moments when he stumbles, foolishly in love and trying to explain the immensity of it, cursing his clumsy tongue. He touches her chin, strokes a thumb over her mouth; the touch is grounding. “You don’t realise… I look at you and I stare. I knocked over a pail, one of the first days after we came back from Halamshiral. Because, if anything… without the weight of the world on your shoulders, you are even more beautiful.”

She blinks at him, her mouth opening under his thumb. (For a moment, he’s back in those first days as she stares in surprise because he’s listening to her, because he’s told her that her place here is assured, that she is important.) He feels her mouth curve as she gives him a roguish grin. Eventually, she speaks, and he moves his hand. “Are you saying I was ugly?”

“You were stunning. But every day, you become… moreso.”

That grin turns into something smaller, secretive; something he recognises from the moments before he’d have to lock his office door. “Ser Rutherford… Rutherford-Trevelyan?” She frowns at him. “Are we doing that? Are _you_ doing that? Have we sorted that out yet? Now I think about it, you could go for an altogether new name, if you wanted, or something like… No, not Ruthelyan, that’s _hideous…_ ”

He simply _looks_ at her, trying his best not to laugh. “ _Yvaine.”_

“Point. Yes, I had one somewhere. Ah, there we are.” She leans across, winding her foot around his calf. She looks at him steadily, and even in the half-darkness, he can tell there’s a glint in her eye. “I’ve thought of something we can do which doesn’t require much focus at all. Or any magic. If you’d like to attempt it?”

“Maker, _yes_ ,” he sighs, and then she’s laughing too much for him to kiss her properly. He doesn’t entirely mind.

 


	20. no sea left for me (the not-really-fairytale AU)

They’re roughly halfway across the Waking Sea when the storm hits. It’s all Cullen’s bile-filled, cabin fever-choked nightmares at once. It takes every ounce of training and reserve he has in him to stay calm, and his hand trembles, grasping at his sword-hilt - though that might be the lack of lyrium. Damn it, if he had some, perhaps he could focus…

His instincts want him to leap forward and give orders, but he leaves that to the captain. Seeker Pentaghast is a severe presence beside him, a brief flash of clattering armour, and then she’s gone.

He feels the world tilt under his feet, and then realises it’s the ship. Not that that’s much better. He’s skidding across the deck, barely able to steady himself, and there are shouts and screams around him -

The water is a shock. The first instinct is always to freeze - it’s something he was taught in training; it can slow mages enough for them to be caught, but make bringing them in dangerous at best - and he does for a moment. Then he kicks out instead, moving, trying to find the surface. He’s always been a decent swimmer and perhaps - perhaps… Perhaps.

But the sea’s churning around him, and he’s tossed and turned. The armour’s weighing him down, and he can’t recover his mind enough to remove it. He needs, with all he has, to _breathe._ He wants to open his mouth and let the sea in. It might even be easier. He can’t find his bearings, he might be swimming downwards rather than towards air, and perhaps he’s cheated death for long enough. It’s still a better way to die than choking and clawing belowdecks, or sobbing at the mercy of demons. His lungs are burning.

 _All things are finite,_ he thinks, and then -

And then there are hands under his arms, pulling. The Veil is practically tearing and magic is crackling up his spine, hot on his tongue. He thrashes, brightness behind his eyelids, wondering how the demons found their way here. His mouth opens and water stings in his throat.

They break the surface and he gasps, coughing and spluttering. Someone is saying quietly next to him, “Oh, don’t you dare, I’m…” The words are rough and broken; she’s panting. “I’m not coming all this way for you to die now.” He looks down as hands press against his chest, pale and white-knuckled next to his breastplate, and there’s another glow of light. He coughs violently, but the weight on his chest and the terrible _wrongness_ in his throat and his lungs is gone.

He’s dragged by those pale, impossibly strong hands to shore - he tries to swim, to help his odd rescuer at least somewhat, but his limbs are stiff and he thinks he must be in shock - until he’s all but thrown onto the beach. A small cloud of sand rises with the landing, making him cough further and wipe at his eyes…

And there’s a woman kneeling over him, frowning. She’s still panting slightly. Her hair hangs, dripping, and she squints at him. Her eyes are dark, long-lashed, the sort of blue that makes him think of… a storm-tossed sea. He sees some sort of tattoo underneath one of them.

He says, “The others.” His voice is rough and scrapes his throat, as if it’s grown rusty in the interim between its last use and this one.

“My friends have got them.” She looks across the beach, probably to those friends. “Everyone made it out.” Her voice is soft, with the kind of polished elocution that makes him think of nobles.

“I’m glad.” His eyes half-close, and he inhales, letting his head fall back against the sand. 

She smiles at him, a small, graceless half-grin that’s strangely endearing. Her paleness and sharp cheekbones are less severe when she smiles. “Awfully considerate for a dead man.”

“Not dead yet. Thanks to you. How did you get me here?”

That sheepish half-grin again. “A judicious bit of force magic.”

“I… I see.” He feels it’s only right to introduce himself. “My name is Cullen.”

Her smile doesn’t fall. “Handsome,” she says quietly.

“I - What?”

Her eyes widen. “No, I, er. I was always told it means ‘handsome,’ or ‘fair.’”

“Oh. Yes, I seem to recall my mother saying the same. Why did you…?”

“I couldn’t just leave you to die. It wouldn’t have been right.” She squints at him again, more dramatically. “You’re all right, aren’t you? You don’t _look_ like you’re about to keel over.”

He laughs at that. It scrapes slightly, but it doesn’t hurt. “I think I am.” He only realises after it’s too late that he’s reached for her hand at his shoulder, covered it with one of his own. He blinks, quickly taking it away. “Forgive me.”

“Nothing to forgive.” Her voice is still soft, but her gaze moves to his glove, his bracer, and something in her face changes. “But I… I really have to go.”

“Is there something I…?”

Fear and tension are in her face and in her posture now, and she’s scrabbling to her feet. “I’m sorry. It’s not… I _need_ to go.” And she’s calling to “her friends,” whoever they are, telling them to move on.

He supposes he should go after her, try to thank her properly, something, but he’s not entirely sure he can stand. Besides, he knows he should let her go. The Circles are gone and he is no longer a templar; it’s not as if he has a duty to bring her in.

“At least tell me… who are you?” he asks.

She shakes her head, her eyes wide, and backs away across the sand. Others fall into line with her, and he squints against the sun, seeing the bright colours of robes and cobbled-together armour. Apostates.

Of course. He looks to the Sword of Mercy on his bracer, loudly proclaiming him as the templar he no longer is, and thinks he knows what made her flee.

He looks back up, but she’s already out of sight.

* * *

 

She didn’t lie. The others are alive, and between the lot of them they make it to Haven, eventually. The Temple is a bright point of hope in the mire of politics and a pointless war -

\- until there’s light, and crumbling stone, and the world turns green.

He makes his way through whispers of _a new_   _Inquisition_ and _the prisoner,_ pretending he isn’t stumbling, and then _the prisoner_ becomes _our saviour_ and there’s something about _Herald of Andraste._ It sounds like madness, or superstition. Perhaps a miracle, but that sort of thing only happens in the stories. Yvaine Trevelyan, he hears, of the Ostwick Trevelyans. Not a family he knows well; it’s not a part of the Marches he’s had many dealings in.

He’s squinting at a map, tracing a finger over the hills outside Redcliffe and thinking of potential troop movements, when the door of the war room opens.

It takes him a moment to recognise her. Dry, her hair is blonde, not the brown he’d assumed, and her lips are stained purple by some kind of paint. But she blinks when she sees him and tenses, quickly concealed, and he knows.

Cassandra introduces him with obvious pride, and he wonders if she recognises one of her saviours. Probably not; there’s no spark in her eyes.

He brings his eyes back to… Yvaine. Yvaine Trevelyan, the mage who nearly drained herself completely saving him. “We’ve met,” he says quietly.

A quiet, rueful half-smile that he finds rather familiar. “Commander Cullen.”

“Lady Yvaine. I owe you my life.”

Her eyes meet his, wide and surprised, and he feels Cassandra and Josephine stare at them both.

Her smile is genuine this time, a bright thing that takes him aback. “Glad you’re not dead.”

He smiles at that himself, and finds he’s oddly glad that the world has brought her to this particular war table.


	21. Far From

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the Cullen Appreciation Week on Tumblr.

Cullen finds it some time after coming to Skyhold. He hadn’t even known he’d taken it - an unusual slip; he thought he’d been rigorous in checking his luggage when leaving Kirkwall, not wanting to waste any space when there was none to spare, and yet he must have carried it through the Conclave, through Haven. It must have been sitting at the bottom of his personal bag while he stood in front of the skittish Herald and assured her he was no longer a templar. He grimaces at that, his head aching from his own stupidity rather than from the withdrawal, before he returns his attention to it. There wasn’t time when they came here; they’ve spent weeks struggling to maintain the Inquisition hour to hour, never mind unpacking and worrying about home comforts.

He pulls the piece of material from underneath the books and potion bottles, the keepsakes of a life that he doesn’t know whether to call his own anymore. He unrolls it between his hands, and simply… looks. Red and purple silk shines in the candlelight, and his eyes are drawn to the golden Sword of Mercy.

_Mercy._ He thought that meant something, once. Before Kirkwall, before… No, since Kinloch. Maker, he lost himself there, and only ran even further from himself in Kirkwall.

“Cullen!” a bright voice says behind him, and there’s a half-hearted knock on his office door.

For one shameful moment, he considers hiding what’s in his hands. Instead he doesn’t move, doesn’t take his eyes from it, and says, “Come in.” His voice is gentler, his absentmindedness more obvious, than he intended.

He hears the door open, and then Yvaine’s steps slow as she approaches him. He can hear her curiosity in them. He feels her at his shoulder, and then she says, “…Ah.”

She obviously recognises too well a Knight-Captain’s sash, for very different reasons.

“Yes,” he manages, trying to restrain bitter, humourless laughter.

“I’m surprised it’s not moth-eaten by now,” she says. She’s attempting to be airy, but there’s a shake in her voice. “Carried all the way from Kirkwall. Your usual frightening maintenance?”

“I… hadn’t known.” He swallows. “Force of habit, I suppose.” And then he begins to fold it, surprised at the steadiness of his hands. “Maker,” he says, after some time, “I should burn it.” He doesn’t understand the words until he’s said them - snarled them under his breath. 

He looks to her now, as much as he wants to avoid her eyes, even as shame burns in him. He has hidden long enough, and she is the one person who will listen. She has watched him rant and rave about Kinloch in the throes of withdrawal, taken his hands after he’s woken from nightmares, held him and healed his wounds while telling him about her day, because as long as he knows it’s her, he knows her voice, he can focus and be  _here_ rather than  _there, then_. 

_You’re a better man than you give yourself credit for._

He loves her, with all that he is. And he’s uncertain he deserves it, but she feels the same.

She’s only watching him with that quiet curiosity. She smiles, a gentle thing, and says, “If it’d make you feel better.”

“No. I need to remember. So I can…” He weighs it in his hands, wondering how a small piece of fabric can feel so heavy. He remembers Meredith and Samson and… “Never again,” he says, quietly. “I will never allow it.”

He feels her press a brief kiss to his cheek, and he wonders with a brief spark of amusement if he’ll have to wipe away purple lip-paint lest he face awkward questions from recruits. It’s a distraction, at least. 

“You know,” she says, “I don’t think it’s likely to happen again. Not that I like to be complacent, but… that would require a man who no longer exists. Not really. You might carry a little of him around, sometimes. I think we all do. Like you say: reminders.”

Her hands reach where his have paused, and then she gently takes the sash. She folds it once, twice more, with careful steadiness - enchanter’s hands, he thinks, as he watches those pale, magic-burned fingers against the silk - and then hands it back to him.

He allows himself a second more, running his thumb over the material and inhaling -  then he tucks it away in the bag again, which was left next to the box with the books and trinkets and the chipped mug the sheepish Herald of Andraste had given to him the first day they’d come here, after an offer of herbal tea; the letters from his sister; the carefully dried flowers from the months of Yvaine’s quiet, earnest attempts at courting him. He runs his fingers over them for a brief moment, wishing he wasn’t wearing gloves

She watches him - he feels her eyes move over his most privately treasured possessions, his show of sentimentality, and lets her look. Then he closes the box, too, and puts it aside, looking up.

She smiles slightly, straightening. “To work, Commander?”

He feels his answering smile, and it’s genuine. “Of course, Inquisitor.”

 


	22. Anagapesis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Promptfic: Anagapesis - The feeling when one no longer loves someone they once did.

“Commander.”

Cullen turns perhaps too fast. He knows that voice, but once it belonged to a quiet apprentice who wouldn’t look at him in corridors and clutched books to her chest as if they might somehow save her. Or, as he now realises, free her. Maker, she’d hated the Tower, and he’d never known how much, fascinated by what little he could gather and too afraid to try and fill the silences in between.

(Yvaine speaks to him of it, sometimes, the desperation she’d see in the younger apprentices, the protests she’d long abandoned because “beating yourself against the bars just ends up with you hurt and too tired to do anything useful.” The way that even after the Circles disbanded, mages would refuse to have children, because those children might spend their lives pursued by the Chantry or whatever remained of it; that the fear and the misery were certainties. Perhaps he would have understood - perhaps Yvaine might have - if they’d spoken in her Tower days. But this is not Yvaine: this was a different, far angrier apprentice who would have hated him for attempting it. Not that he knew then. There were so many things he didn’t know, then.)

He manages, “Warden Amell.” Not  _Apprentice,_ and she has never been  _Morgana_ to him, not entirely; that was for Anders and Jowan and the others of her kind, for her friends and loved ones. He has never quite known her well enough to be either.

“Warden-Commander,” she corrects him, and tilts her head. He can’t help but feel as if he’s being assessed, and found lacking.

“Yes,” he says, with a nod. “I apologise.”

There is still the moment of surprise, sometimes, that this awkwardness doesn’t come from unrequited longing but from too many years of history and not knowing where to begin. He waits for the feelings and the crushing shame to rise, and there is… nothing. It’s an old scar, a faint ache, rather than something that tears him open anew. One of many, and far from the most important.  Oddly, he almost wants to smile at the thought, but that really will make him look Fade-touched.

He doubts they will ever talk about it. Perhaps it’s better this way - talking has never been his strong suit. He tried to apologise, once, and was cut off by an equally uncomfortable Amell.

“Do you know where I can find the Inquisitor?” she asks. “I was told you’d know.” 

He thinks of Yvaine this morning, her hair golden and wild in the sunlight, and the expanse of her pale, soft, sometimes scarred skin warmed by it; he remembers her shivering but still insisting on wearing distractingly little until she gave up and started burrowing further under the covers, ignoring his amusement. “ _We’ve saved the world and Josie says there’s nothing on my schedule. Am I allowed to have a nap?”_

 _“Of course, Inquisitor,”_ he’d said solemnly, his lips twitching.

A pale hand had stuck out from under the covers and pointed at him, even while the rest of her stayed hidden. “ _Stop that.”_ And then she reached out blindly, patting around the bed until she touched his thigh and then found his hand. She pulled it under the covers and he felt her press a kiss to it. “ _Go and run this place,”_ she mumbled. “ _Love you.”_

And even then, he’d wondered if he deserved it, but the thought had less pain to it than it used to. More…. surprise at how lucky he was. He reached over and pulled away some of the covers, until he saw startlingly dishevelled hair and one dark blue eye squinting up at him. “ _I love you too,”_ he said, quietly. “ _Enjoy your nap, Yvaine.”_

And then he kissed her forehead and left her to it, hearing a faint, sleepy mutter of, “ _I’ll do my best”_ from behind him.

They haven’t told people yet. Some appear to understand the situation from their sole embrace in front of others, the hug the day Yvaine returned alive like a living gift, but mostly, they’ve been… quiet. It’s small, unimportant in the grand scheme of things - but that is entirely what makes it important.

Unfortunately, this means Yvaine is likely still asleep in his bed.

“I… uh…” he tries. “I’ll see if I can find her.” He feels his face heating.

He wonders if it’s so obvious in his face; Amell, with that small, curious headtilt again, goes, “Oh.” With a quiet, awkward, entirely  _Fereldan_ sort of smile, she says, “Thank you.”

With one more awkward nod, he departs. It’s without looking back, and he’s certain Amell isn’t watching him go.


End file.
